This is the only conclusion that can be drawn from the amount of stuff she is cramming into her suitcases for a three-hour tour (a three-hour tour). I hide the cat so she’ll have to come back eventually.

We go to the airport. It’s empty. I take this as a good sign, unless they’re closed on Tuesdays. In reality, they’re just taking a break because all their computers are down. Fancy Boy airline people have to have everything just so. This results in Mo’s plane leaving an hour late, and airlines do not use chip timing. Her original itinerary had an hour between landing in Houston and getting to her connecting flight. Have you ever been been to Houston Intercontinental? The Houston Marathon is point-to-point from Terminal A to Terminal C. Things are bleak. If not for the courage of the fearless crew, her flight will be lost.

But I have more pressing matters than my wife’s survival. I come home to do my midyear work review, which is due tomorrow. Funny how you never outgrow homework. I have been putting it off forever, and today is the day. Especially since nobody shows “Gilligan’s Island” reruns anymore.

Oops. I am quickly distracted by the Weather Channel, which has reporters valiantly trying to look embattled by 60 mph winds. Where I live, we call 60 mph winds kite weather. But still, it’s news, and I’m a newsman. And last time a hurricane was supposed to hit New Orleans, Gumbo said a prayer and it slammed our neighborhood instead. It’s my duty as an only-parent to BK to monitor the situation. OK, I switch to Dr. Phil, but I assume if something big happens they’ll break in.

I wait till Mo finally gets on her first flight (yay!!!), then go to the gym.

Working nights, I forget what it’s like to go during prime time. Someone has rudely taken my treadmill. He appears to be doing some sort of 10-second run and 50-second recovery repeat thing. I wait for a while, hoping for a coronary that never happens. I am a bad person.

So I grudgingly run 4 on TM 3, which has entirely the wrong ambiance (who ever thought it would be a good idea for Tim Allen to have a TV show?) and I mosey home.

BK somehow knows when Mo is leaving for a while, because it’s the only time she’s ever friendly. She snuggles up with me and gives me the hey baby how ’bout some tuna look. I offer her some Honey Nut Chex. BK decides she’d rather just be an orphan.

Mo calls. She’s in Houston. And she’s lost. She watches her plane pulling away. She talks to the nice people at the help desk. And shockingly, in this age of “please press 1 to blah blah blah,” they help. The good news: There’s another flight in four hours. The bad news: It’s full. The good news: Except for first class, which they allow her to fly in for no extra cost. I’m betting she’s glad she didn’t wear her Kurt Cobain grunge pants after all. All is well.

Finally, I’m able to focus and do my review. But then I realize I still haven’t found my purple shoes. Which leads to an extended futile search and a series of social media pleas. Which never works so well because I only have three people in my social media network. As it turns out, one of them checked the Home Depot in Sacramento (thanks, Santiago!) so we’ve narrowed it down a bit. But still. Gotta get to that review.

Time to hunker down.

But before I can start, I am obligated to listen to the last Alanis album. I find her later music so ho-hum that it makes me doubt a universe that could allow her to become a star largely from having sex with a “Full House” cast member. But Mo and I had been talking about her earlier in the day and I realized I never really listened past the first two albums. Who am I to write a review without giving her a fair chance? I listen. My review: oh, well.

Which leads me to the wine. Mo has found a wine she likes, but it only comes in 30-gallon bottles. So it kinda gets away from you. (In its defense, it passes my personal Fine Wine Test — it has a cork.) I’m drinking it out of a Caffe Ladro Espresso Bar & Bakery mug, which probably violates the Wine Code. But I’m also eating pecan shortbread cookies, which makes it moot. And I figure the rules of etiquette are looser on Tuesdays, no?

Pleasantly buzzed, I finally turn my attention to the review. Almost. Actually, for the 2,000,000,000,000,000th time I listen to Jill Sobule’s “California” album, which is so damn perfect that it makes me doubt a universe that could allow her to toil in obscurity. But I’ve got wine, I’ve got Jill, I’ve got a cookie, I’ve got a short-wave radio made from a coconut. Life is good. I’m finally ready.

I go to sign in to do my review. For real. Let’s do it.

And then I discover you can’t log into the site from home. Firewalls or Magic Weasels or something. Oh, well.

7 Responses to My day: A photo essay

In addition to the obvious mental deterioration, have you noticed any other symptoms? As you are no doubt well aware, serious health problems can result from exposure to rodents, especially their feces. Muskrats, of course, are among the largest rodents.

“Muskrats are among the few animals that regularly defecate in water, and their droppings (like those of humans and other mammals) can cause a flu like infection, which old-time trappers referred to as “beaver fever.” Anyone handling a dead or live muskrat… should wear rubber gloves, and wash his or her hands well when finished.” *

I assume that you have been practicing safe muskrat handling during your recent SOM activities.